


Turn to Me

by Lyricoloratura



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: And Holmes is not as observant as he believes, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Mary is not a romantic interest here, Past Character Death, Stillbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2019-10-02 00:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17253911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyricoloratura/pseuds/Lyricoloratura
Summary: Watson has had a devastating few days at the hospital, and is forced to revisit one of the darkest times in his life.  Holmes is there to remind him that neither of them are alone any more.





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the beginning of xASx (the_consulting_linguist)'s Sherlock Secret Santa fic (@SherlockSecretSanta) for tumblr. I certainly hope that you'll enjoy it, my dear! More to come very soon. XOXO
> 
> I’m also Lyricoloratura over on tumblr (consistent, that’s me) — so come hit your girl up if you so desire, yeah?

Another case solved, though it was hardly as satisfying as some of the others for which Watson has given me such outrageous credit over the years in the Strand. Yes, the identity of the blackmailer and his accomplices had been discovered, but there was no triumph involved in the discovery.

As it turned out, my illustrious client was so devastated to discover that she was being threatened by her beloved grandson and his unsavory companions from university that not only did she refuse to press charges, but she also forbade me from alerting the police about the attempted extortion.

Perhaps Watson, with his warm heart and persuasive manner, could have convinced Lady M to change her mind, but Watson had been unable to accompany me into the Midlands due to a frightful epidemic of influenza in London. I had felt his absence keenly during the two weeks I had been away from London; in truth, it seemed that I missed Watson’s calm presence at my side even more these days whenever we had to be apart than I had done during my long absence after the unfortunate events at the Reichenbach Falls. He had returned to 221B Baker Street not long after my return to the land of the living, but on this particular night, knowing he was under my roof and I was not made me even more distressed.

I was, therefore, in what my dear Watson would pawkily refer to as “a fine frame of mind” when my train from Coventry finally arrived at Waterloo station. By the time the hansom cab had dropped me off at our front door, it was only my consideration for the good doctor and our preternaturally patient landlady that stopped me from stomping up the stairs in my frustration with the outcome of my case. It was, after all, well past the time that respectable citizens had retired to their beds -- and while Mrs. Hudson was fortunately very hard of hearing, I certainly had no wish to disrupt Watson’s well-earned rest with my own stroppy behavior. He and I would have time to greet one another and share any news over breakfast tomorrow.

I moved stealthily upstairs and turned the doorknob as quietly as possible, knowing that on some nights Watson might startle awake at the slightest noise. Our drawing room was almost completely dark, with only the last glow of embers in the fireplace giving any light to the silent room.

No, not silent. The barest rustle of fabric, a quiet indrawn breath drew my attention to our settee, where I could see what appeared to be the form of my dear friend the doctor. As my eyes became more accustomed to the dimness of the room, I was able to see that Watson had not removed his boots or even his greatcoat, but was utterly motionless, stretched fully clothed with his face turned away and buried in two throw pillows.

Alarmed, I strode quickly toward him, fearing that he may have taken ill and was in need of assistance. Without thinking, I reached down to take Watson’s wrist between my fingers to check his pulse, his temperature. No sooner had I touched his skin than he shot up into a sitting position, uttering a hoarse, shocked cry before realizing who was at his side.

“Oh, Holmes,” he gasped, “I’m terribly sorry to have shouted at you. Please forgive me.” He took a moment to look down, taking in his own disheveled appearance. “I look a fright, don’t I?” He huffed out a short breath that might have been meant to be a laugh. “It was a long day, after many other long days, and they’ve started to wear on me, I fear.”

Of course, I could scarcely look upon this most familiar of countenances without having my own powers of deduction start to go to work. Indeed, it had been one in a series of long days for Watson, but there was more. The pallor and unusual translucency of his skin, the dark circles under reddened eyes were even more eloquent than the hoarseness of his voice and the obvious exhaustion of his body. He’d clearly fallen ill with influenza during my time away, but had continued working to care for others instead of giving his body the rest he was rightly prescribing to others.

The worst of the illness had passed for Watson, and may have been less virulent for his having already contracted influenza earlier in the year, but he was still far from entirely well. The creases in his clothing indicated to me that this night was the first time that he had been back to our home at Baker Street since before I had departed for Coventry sixteen days previously.

I felt a surge of frustration at the idiocy of the man, even as I admired his dedication and bravery.  Because of course he had been staying at the hospital with his patients, catching sleep, food or drink only when he was forced to do so by medical colleagues or (bless them forever) the nursing sisters who had probably lovingly bullied him to stop before he actually collapsed from illness and exhaustion.

Suddenly, Watson dropped his head down into his hands with a shuddering sigh. I had been silent too long, and he of all people knew the workings of my mind.  

“Not tonight, Holmes,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper. “I can’t be an experiment tonight -- please don’t deduce me, not now.”

I hadn’t meant to give voice to any of my observations, but I still felt a stab of guilt that I’d made him feel as though I might. Lord knows how often I’d deduced him rather heartlessly in the past, unfortunately.

“Of course I will not, Watson -- only tell me how I might help you find some relief. Even Scotland Yard would be able to observe that you’ve worked yourself almost to the edge of complete collapse.”

My ham-handed dig at the incompetence of the Yard was an ongoing private joke of ours, and it had its intended effect as Watson relaxed almost imperceptibly and let out a quiet laugh.

“Indeed they could, Holmes. In point of fact, they actually did -- it was our fine old friend Detective Lestrade who appeared at the hospital to escort me back to Baker Street this evening, and it was our friend Gregson who made it very clear to me that I was not to return to Royal London Hospital for at least a week from today lest I be ‘taken away in darbies,’ as he said.”

He looked up at me for just the briefest of moments, trying to smile at Gregson’s attempted humor. The pain in those ever-expressive dark blue eyes clearly had nothing to do with his physical exhaustion, but I was unwilling to add to his discomfort by asking prying questions; he would tell me about his trials later on, or he would not. Watson was not a case, not a puzzle. He was my dearest friend, and tonight he needed me, whether or not he would admit it.

“As little as you wish to be deduced, old friend, it is clear that you must be aching for your own bed, and perhaps the warmth of a hot cup of tea or a bit of brandy.”

I likely sounded rather desperate in my urge to help him, and indeed, I found that I was feeling rather desperate.  Yet I could tell that the doctor was about to turn my offer away, to try to deal with his distress on his own, and it was nearly more than I could bear.

“Please, Watson,” I cajoled, “you’ve given me this kind of assistance on more occasions than even I can recall; if I have ever been your friend, my dear boy, let me make you more comfortable tonight.”

Watson seemed almost to deflate, and I was somewhat startled when his forehead dropped to my shoulder. “Of course you’re right, Holmes.” I felt him shake his head slightly against my neck. “You’re always right, aren’t you?”

Then he was trying to stand, and allowed me to pull him to his feet before he shuffled unsteadily toward the stairs that led up to his bedroom.

“Not tonight, Watson. It simply won’t do.  My room is larger, it is warmer, and it is not on the wrong end of eleven stairs. Tonight you’ll have my room, and I’ll have no argument about it.”

It said a great deal about the doctor’s state of utter exhaustion that he did not even attempt to argue this point with me, but simply allowed me to guide him silently toward my own room for the night.


	2. Before the Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now we hear from our dear Doctor Watson, and we learn why he is so distraught by the events of the previous day.

Someone was moaning.  It was a piteous, miserable sound, and  would have wakened me even if I had been far more soundly asleep.  I sat up, looking to find the source of the cries, only to find that they had stopped as soon as I had roused from my slumber.  

 I was in Holmes’ room, in his very bed -- and the man himself was perched at the edge of the bed, with such a look of distress upon his face that it was humiliatingly clear that it had been I who was moaning in the night.  I felt the redness creeping into my face, and could only feel some relief that at least Holmes would not see my blushes. 

 “Watson.”  Holmes’ voice was quiet, but urgent.  “Please forgive me for prying, but…” he shook his head, seeming momentarily to be at a loss for words.  “When I arrived back at home tonight, it was clear to me that you’ve only recently recovered from a bout of influenza, and that you’ve been denying yourself sufficient rest or food.”  He gave me a sort of sad smile.  “In truth, my boy, you would have -- indeed, you have --  taken me to task most severely if you’d found I’d treated myself in a similar way.”

 I startled slightly as his palm lit gently onto my forearm.  I followed his line of sight, realizing that he was looking closely at a small splash of blood that I’d failed to wash away after scrubbing myself clean at the end of my last rounds for the evening at Royal London.  I knew the meaning behind this look, and knew just as well that Holmes was deducing my entire miserable day with no more than this tiny bit of evidence. 

 “Would you like to tell me about it?  You needn’t, of course, but please do know that I would be more than willing to hear anything you have to share with me.”  I always knew that Holmes was possessed of a great deal of compassion, regardless of how assiduously he attempted to conceal it from the general public.  But his clear and genuine concern nearly unmanned me, and I was dangerously close to tears.

 I took a deep breath, gathering my thoughts.  As little as I wished to discuss it, I knew that it might be helpful to me to tell Holmes my sad story.  “I never told you about Mary, I know.” 

 I felt his grip on my arm tighten slightly.  “No, friend Watson.  When I returned from my long absence, I knew only that she had passed away the year previous.  I know it had to have been a grievous loss to you.”  Holmes’ unguarded expression of sympathy was surprising, but welcome; the kindness of this truest of friends was a balm to the raw ache that the events of the previous day had left behind in my heart.

 “You may not have known this, but we were expecting a child, and the time was very near for her to be delivered.”  Holmes nodded silently, encouraging me to go on.  “It was within a few weeks -- we had gathered all the fanciful little odds and ends that new parents like to have for their babies -- when Mary suddenly became deathly ill.  She began to swell up most fearfully, her face and limbs bloating so that she was in abject misery, and finally she began to experience violent seizures.  There was nothing, nothing that could be done to give her any relief.”

 I was unable to continue, at least for a moment.  Other than Mary’s own attending physician and his nurse, no one else knew about the events that led to my wife’s sad demise, and this was the first time that I had tried to explain it to anyone else.

 “It was a miserable death for her, I am sorry to say.  I would have given anything at all to have experienced her pain for her -- indeed, I would gladly have died in her place.”  I didn’t need to express the rest of that thought to Holmes; Mary and the prospect of our baby had been the only slender threads that had kept me going through my time of mourning after what I had thought was his death.  Mary’s death and the loss of that hope, that future, had left me as truly despondent as I had been at any time in my life.

 “Mary’s doctor is a very forward-thinking man, and had asked me when we first realized that her illness would likely prove fatal whether I would be willing for him to try to rescue the child when Mary had passed.  It was a horrifying, gruesome conversation to have -- but I agreed to the procedure, knowing that Mary would have wanted our baby to have every chance at life even if hers was lost.”

 Holmes’ hand moved down my arm to clasp my own hand; it was almost as though he was trying to transfer some of his own strength to me, and it was profoundly comforting.

 “As you might imagine, our son did not long survive after the doctor removed him from his mother’s body.”  I felt hot tears begin to fall, and for once I was unashamed of them.  “He was a bonny little boy, Holmes, and I got to hold him for the few minutes that he lived.”  

 I covered my eyes with my free hand, nearly overwhelmed.  “The only thing my son knew in his life was to be held in his father’s arms, and the only sight his eyes ever saw was my face.  He only knew his mama when he was wrapped in a blanket and buried in her arms.”  Then I could speak no more, and wept bitterly for some minutes before I could resume my story.  Holmes, bless him, waited in absolute silence.

 “There was another young mother on my ward today, near to her time, and she hadn’t even been ill for a full day before the influenza took her.  I thought to rescue her little one in a way that we’d been unable to save my son, so I operated as quickly as possible to try to save the baby -- but she was dead before I could take her from her mother.  I did my best -- I daresay that no other doctor could have done better in the circumstances -- but it brought back the memories of Mary and our son in a heartrending way.”

 Holmes was still silent, but I had finally composed myself enough to meet his eyes again -- only to be shocked to my very core to see that he, too, was weeping.  I squeezed our joined hands, feeling a sense of brotherhood with him that I had rarely felt with any other man in my life. 

 “I thought you were dead, Holmes -- I thought I’d lost everything.”  Now that I had started the tale, it felt as though the floodgates had opened and I had to tell him all.  “We had chosen names for our child whether it had been a girl or a boy,” I whispered.  “Our son was named Arthur Holmes Watson, after Mary’s late father and the man who would have been his godfather.”

 Holmes seemed almost to crumple into himself, releasing my hand before turning away to hide his sudden unwonted show of emotion.  Unwilling to permit this, I put both hands on his shoulders and manhandled him into facing me before I pulled him into my arms and held onto him as tightly as ever I could.

 “I thought I’d lost it all, my dear Holmes, but I hadn’t lost you -- and by God, I’m thankful for that every single day.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading through this and thinking, "Hey! What is this, a gen fic?" then please be reassured -- it most certainly is not.
> 
> However, it may end up being 4 chapters long instead of only three? I'm going to have to see how the rest of the story ends up breaking itself apart. But yes, yes, to the (non-graphic) slash, and YES to the happy ending. Promise.


	3. Sparrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Holmes learns that he doesn't always know everything.

**Chapter 3**

Sparrow

 

Up until that night, I suppose I had prided myself on my ability to remain calm and unflappable even in the most terrifying of situations.  I had managed to stand up to any number of armed assailants, and even retained my wits as the Reichenbach torrents tried to batter me into pieces against the unforgiving Alpine rock.

But in this moment, I was hopelessly lost in the strong circle of Watson’s arms, sobbing like an imbecile into the fabric of his nightshirt and physically incapable of either responding to him or moving away from him.  I was speechless, breathless, as he confessed that even with the enormity of his loss, he was grateful to have me back with him. Had I ever taken the time to consider it, I would have imagined my own return to have been a pale and cold comfort compared to the loss of his wife -- and yet his words, his tone, the fierceness of his embrace all told a different story.  

Not for the first time, I fought against my own selfish desires to claim Watson as far more than the dearest of friends.  Of course I was aware of his reputation as the scourge of the fair sex across three continents, and I was present to witness his courtship of the late Mrs. Watson; I would never in my wildest nightmares have allowed Watson to know of my inversion, much less the nature of my warmest feelings for him. 

But here was the blasted man tucked warmly into my own bed, the honey gold of his hair lying on my pillow, his arms steadfastly clasped around me, his mustache brushing against my ear as his warm voice murmured comforting nonsense to soothe me. To soothe _me,_ who was meant to be comforting _him_.

I defy any man or woman alive to truly know John Hamish Watson and not to fall in love with him.  God knows it proved to be an impossible task for me.

At length, we both became more calm, and I felt Watson’s breathing and heartbeat become slower and steadier as he rested quietly next to me.  I remained silent, and waited for him to release me so that he could resume his desperately-needed night’s sleep. Indeed he did finally loosen his embrace, but I was rather surprised to see him move to sit with his back up against my headboard, seemingly with every intention of resuming the conversation. 

As badly as I wanted to be a good friend and confidant, I frankly dreaded the nature of any further revelations the night might bring; my much-vaunted composure had already proven to be a terrible disappointment, and any defenses I might have had against Watson were so ineffective as to be nonexistent. 

Though I may not be a war hero like my valiant Watson, I am no coward.  And if Watson needed to speak, then I would gird myself to hear whatever he had to say.

“Holmes,” he said presently, “I’m so terribly sorry, for I know that I’ve already caused you pain, but…” He paused, as if trying to find his words, staring straight ahead at the dimly lit window and assiduously avoiding my searching gaze. “But there’s more, Holmes.  I need to tell you the whole of it, there’s simply no other way. I can only hope that you’ll be able to forgive me once you know the truth about it… about me.”

Impulsively, I started to tell him that there was literally nothing he could have done, said, or thought that would ever be unforgivable to me; he preempted my interruption with the softest fleeting pressure of his fingertips against my lips.

“No, my dear friend,” he said gently but firmly. “I must speak now, while I have the nerve.”

An oddly detached part of my mind made a note that at a later time, I would need to do some research as to the physiological reactions that were currently making me feel as though my blood had turned to ice and was jangling terrifyingly through my veins.  Watson might know; perhaps I could ask him.  

I had to actually shake myself a bit to bring my full focus back to my friend, who looked somewhat startled by my reaction but kindly chose not to mention it.  Watson looked as though he might have dreaded the conversation ahead as well; he curled up rather miserably as he sat with his knees drawn up almost to his chin, and his head nearly buried between them. I could hear him clearly enough, but his face was completely hidden from me. 

I know Watson feared that my deductive skills would be superior to his powers of concealment; had I been allowed to speak, I could have told him that his fears were for naught. I had no idea whatsoever what he was so afraid to tell me.

“You heard me say earlier, Holmes, that I thank God every day that you came safely back to me.  That was absolutely true. But -- God forgive me -- it’s not the whole of the truth.”

His hands moved up, fretfully seizing fistfuls of his golden hair.  “The whole of the truth is that had I been able to choose which of the three of you I could have returned to me from death, oh, Holmes, it would always have been you." 

His voice cracked, and I could hear the tears that threatened not far behind.  "Not my wife, not my baby. Only you.”

I hoped that I was not to be called upon to speak, because that power had temporarily left me.  I had to remind myself to inhale.  

With a shuddering breath, Watson continued.  “Can you imagine how I felt when I learned that you weren’t truly dead, that you had come home?  My prayers, my prayers that I thought could never possibly be answered… and yet they were, and you had come back.  Holmes, I was overjoyed -- and at the same time, I felt like a murderer.”  

For just a moment, he raised his head and looked upon my dumbstruck expression.  “Yes, I’m well aware that this sounds like lunacy, but some irrational part of my mind thought that if I could save you by desperately wishing you back, could I not have saved my wife, or my son?   And of course, of _course_ I knew that wasn’t possible, and that wasn’t remotely how things had actually come to pass.  But the guilt remained.”

There was a long pause, during which my ear became trained to listen to the ticking of the clock on the drawing room mantle.  It was running a bit slowly; I would need to wind it in the morning.

“I’m not at all certain that I’ll be able to explain this in a way that you can understand, old boy, as I know that you eschew matters of the heart whenever possible.”

He knew nothing of the sort, but I was in no frame of mind to argue with him at the moment.

“I had great affection and esteem for Mary, as I believe she did for me.  But ours was not a marriage of fervent passion; she was not in love with me, nor was I with her.  She married me because the expectations of polite society and her own financial situation would not allow her to live the independent life she would have preferred.  And I… I married her because I had already lost my heart to someone who could not return my love; it was rapidly becoming an untenable situation for me, and I had to remove myself from the temptation to say or do something that would have been at best humiliating, and at worst illegal.”

My Watson, in love?  With someone other than Mary?  His words, his turn of phrase… I was missing something, but what was it?  “At worst illegal,” he had said -- 

Had he then been in love… with a _man_? 

And even as I realized that this must be the case, a clamoring horde of new questions were baying in my mind like so many hungry hounds after a treed fox. How had I never noticed that Watson was queer? Had he had paramours even as we lived together in Baker Street?  Surely not -- but then, who was this man who could not return his love? Was it someone I knew?

I wanted to vomit.

Watson continued his focus on the opposite wall, oblivious to the crisis occurring next to him on the bed.

“Mary knew, of course. I couldn’t marry her under false pretenses, and she understood, bless her.  We got on well enough, and she more or less kept me alive in those first few months after… after you were lost.” 

He paused with what might have been meant as a wry chuckle; it was instead a hollow, ghastly sound. “I know you never had any particular affection for her, Holmes, but if it hadn’t been for Mary, I can’t promise that you’d have had your humble servant to call upon when you returned.”

I refused to ponder even for a moment what he meant by that.

“At any rate, all of this came back to me today like a bit of an avalanche.  The patient who died in hospital with her baby made me think of poor Mary and all she went through, and of course our little boy.  I still feel guilty sometimes because they’re dead and buried, with no more future left to enjoy, and I’m still here… and with you again.”

I kept circling back in my mind to the one question that would not go away.

“But, your ‘untenable situation’ from before your marriage -- how did you resolve that?” 

The words seemed to jump from my mouth of their own volition.  Watson could give no answer to my question that was going to be satisfactory to me, and the rational man who still lived somewhere in my brain was roundly cursing me for the basest fool that I should have asked such a profoundly stupid thing.  Then, just for a moment, I looked up to see a flash of pain cross Watson's face; I bitterly and vainly wished that the idiotic question had never been spoken.

Watson drew in a long breath, releasing it on an even longer sigh.  

“It’s rather a moot point, Holmes. At any rate, I have made my peace with the situation.” The sound of forced cheerfulness in his voice let me know that Watson was working hard now to sound calm and philosophical.  “After all, we can’t have everything we want in life, can we?"

 _Clearly not_ , I found myself thinking -- but I had at least sense enough not to answer what was a rhetorical question on Watson's part.  He was obviously struggling, and I was the heartless creature who had caused him to revisit his pain for the sake of my curiosity.

With another long sigh of a breath, he passed a weary hand across his eyes.  "I’ve learned," he said, "to think of that particular situation as being like that of a wee sparrow who’s in love with the sun.  Think of it -- the little fellow comes out at sunrise to sing to the lovely light, and he preens his silly brown feathers in the sun’s welcoming warmth, and then every day, he sees and feels the sun and does the same thing again, and he’s perfectly contented.  It would never occur to him to expect the sun to love him back.”

An incandescent fury began to burn in my chest at the thought of a universe in which John Watson — magnificent, beautiful, courageous,  _perfect_ John Watson — would think to compare himself to a drab little sparrow.  I was ready at that very moment to leap off of my bed, chase down the unmitigated idiot who somehow continued to spurn Watson’s love, and... and demand satisfaction.  Somehow.

But Watson was still speaking. “You see, Holmes, I think I have at least as much sense as a common English sparrow.  If I’ve gained no other knowledge over the past few years, at least I’ve learned that life doesn’t have to be perfect in order for it to be very, very good indeed -- and that there are some gifts that can’t be given, and shouldn’t be asked for.”  

Just then, as if it had heard itself being discussed, a sparrow began to twitter in the branches of the plane tree outside my window as the first tender rays of sunlight teased their way through the houses on Baker Street.  Watson rose then to look out the window, gathering his dressing gown as he went. He gave the unwitting little bird a heartbreakingly beautiful smile before turning to leave my room.

“It’s been a dreadfully long night, and I’m terribly sorry for my part in keeping you awake, old boy.  To tell the truth, I’m absolutely shattered.  As you’ve already deduced, I’ve worked for nearly two straight weeks, and I’m still feeling a bit peaky from my own little bout with the ‘flu.”  

He wasn’t making excuses; by the growing daylight, I could see now that Watson was disturbingly pale, and my poor boy was beginning to sway on his feet with exhaustion. “Holmes,” he continued through a yawn, “I think now that I’m going to trudge upstairs to my own bed before Mrs. Hudson comes up with breakfast, and try to get some actual sleep before the sun is much higher.”

I was taken by surprise as he stopped, taking my hand with great tenderness in both of his own, and looked at me so seriously and so very kindly with eyes that were the same deep blue as the early morning sky. 

“With all my heart, my dear boy, I thank you for listening to my tale of woe this night.  I can’t begin to tell you what a comfort your friendship is, has always been to me."  He glanced down at our joined hands before releasing mine with a brief, affectionate squeeze.

"And please, please believe me when I say to you that as long as you don’t mind having me here as your friend, your Boswell, your conductor of light, or,” he shrugged, “maybe just your damn sparrow -- I promise I’ll not ask for more from you.  You have my word.”

With the same infinitely sweet, sad smile he’d granted to the bird outside my window, he gave me a nod and silently made his way up the stairs to his own room.

It was in that moment that I, frozen where I stood, realized that I would be able to find the unmitigated idiot who had spurned John Watson’s love by turning to my own looking glass.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience as I finally get back to writing instead of just reading! I think one more chapter will see these lovely boys nicely sorted.


	4. The Whole of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the truth comes out.

Chapter 4

The Whole of It

 

I was in the doorway of my own little attic bedroom without any clear idea of how I had actually made my way up the steep and narrow little staircase.  I had looked into Sherlock Holmes’ eyes, clasped his hand, and essentially declared myself to be hopelessly and irrevocably in love with him -- and I can only suppose that at that point my conscious mind, realizing that it inhabited a gibbering idiot, simply took its leave for a short while until I was out of Holmes’ presence.

Normally, I would have been beside myself at the disastrous revelation that I had just made, but for the moment I found myself distantly surprised at my continued calm.  I vaguely recalled feeling a similar sense of fatalistic composure after I was wounded at Maiwand; the situation was, I reckoned, already as bad as it was likely to get for the time being.  Nothing was to be gained by worrying about it now -- and at any rate, I was nearly prostrate with exhaustion and clearly incapable of coherent thought.

Stepping out of my slippers and shrugging away my dressing gown, I moved a bit stiffly to climb into my own bed.  Though it was neither as large nor as luxurious as Holmes’ bed, it was cozy and familiar; I was likely most of the way into the embrace of Morpheus before I had managed even to pull up the covers, and was lost to dreamless sleep before my head hit the pillow.

 

~oOo~

 

The light and shadows in my room had moved across the wall rather significantly by the time I next opened my eyes.  In the first instants of wakefulness, a quick inventory of my own physical condition informed me that though I was still plagued by a host of aches and pains, the fog of bone-deep weariness had begun to lift from my thoughts and I felt slightly more human.

As I awakened more fully, I recalled with horror how I had left my friend several hours previously.  God only knew how Holmes had taken my pathetic declaration of love and devotion -- and I could only hope that he would not object to my continuing to live with him under such awkward circumstances.  Not that anything had really changed for me -- I had loved him devotedly for years, after all -- but he had remained safe as long as he hadn’t known. My misery and frustration were vented in a quiet but heartfelt groan as I buried my face into my pillow.

“Watson?”  I was startled into an inarticulate shout by Holmes’ urgent voice coming from mere inches away from my pillow.  Somehow, without my having seen him, he had been sitting perched on the little footstool not far from the side of my bed -- who knows when he had crept into my room, or how long he had stayed?  My hand flew to my chest over my pounding heart, and I was breathing as though I had just run a race.

“Watson!” he repeated breathlessly, taking me firmly by both shoulders and turning me slightly toward him.  “Watson, you’ve gone pale, are you ill? What can I do? Need I send for someone?” I could not remember ever seeing Holmes so distraught, and even through my profound embarrassment, I was touched by his solicitude.

I sat up in the bed, reaching to pat one of his hands as it grasped my shoulder.  “Indeed, dear boy, I’m fine,” I said in the heartiest voice I could muster. I was just startled to see you, and probably overreacted.  I’m terribly sorry to have worried you.”  

Now it was Holmes’ turn to look abashed.  “Oh,” he replied, somewhat uselessly. “Oh, then, that’s fine.  I’m sorry to have startled you.”

And with that, we both stared at one another wordlessly; I found myself wondering how on earth I was ever going to get myself out of this situation, and I suspect that Holmes’ mind was similarly occupied.  

“Holmes --”

“Watson --”

We had both tried to speak at the same time, and then stopped simultaneously as well.  I was prevented from trying to start again by the utterly novel sensation of Holmes’ long, slender finger laid over my lips.  It was not a fleeting touch; his fingertip remained there for long enough that I had to make a conscious effort to keep from kissing it.

“Watson.”  He took a deep breath.  “John.”

In all our years of close association and friendship, Holmes had never used my Christian name, and I could not imagine why he was doing so now.  I could scarcely breathe for wondering what would come next.

Holmes had squared his shoulders like a soldier going into battle.  “You told me the whole of your truth last night,” he said quietly. “I think you deserve to hear the whole of mine.”

He looked so forthright, so brave, and so very determined in that moment that my heart ached for him. “You needn’t tell me anything that you’d rather not,” I whispered, not trusting my voice.

“When we parted this morning, you gave me your word you would not ask more of me.”  Those keen silver eyes were dimmed with the beginning sheen of tears. “I am here now to beg you to break your word, John Watson. You gave me a promise I would never have required of you; I want you to ask _everything_ of me.”

I was left without even the breath -- much less the words -- to give him an answer.

“I can only beg your forgiveness if I’m wrong, but I felt that perhaps the… the ‘untenable situation’ in which you found yourself before your marriage may have had something to do with… with me.” 

I had never heard Holmes stammer before; it was both startling and profoundly endearing.  Rather than interrupting him, I simply nodded in response.

“I, who take such pride in my observational skills,” he went on with a self-deprecatory shake of his head, “managed to miss the most important deduction of my entire life.  I had no idea that you felt that way about me.”  

“Well, my dear boy,” I replied somewhat wryly, “you weren’t meant to know, were you?”  

I was feeling rather as though I were being buffeted by a veritable hurricane of mixed emotions at the moment -- and I’m not proud to admit that one of those was just a tiny bit of triumph at having fooled the great Sherlock Holmes for once in his life.

He had reached over and taken my hand in both of his, much as I had done earlier in the morning.  “I _do_ want you here with me as my friend, as my Boswell, as my conductor of light.”  

He closed his eyes for just a moment, and when he opened them again, I could swear that I could read his very heart in them. “I want you as all of those things, and as so much more.  I want you as the one who shares my joys and sorrows, the one who knows me sometimes better than I know myself. I want you, John Watson, as the other half of my heart -- because you have had the whole of it for longer than I can tell you.  I want --”

What he was going to tell me that he wanted remains a mystery to this day, as I was utterly unable to allow him to continue.  I took that beautifully chiseled jaw into the palm of my hand and guided his perfect lips to my own. Not possessing his eloquence, I allowed my kisses to show him that there was nothing he could ever ask for that I would be unwilling to provide. 

I broke away for just long enough to pull him up onto the bed to lie next to me -- not a difficult task, as he came along quite willingly.  He looked nearly transformed, his face glowing with what I supposed to be the same quiet, overwhelming joy that I was feeling.  His shining gray eyes were bright with unshed tears, and I felt for all the world as though my heart would explode from my chest if I could not soon manage to give voice to my own feelings.

“Sherlock Holmes,” I murmured, feeling as serious as I’d ever felt in my entire life, “I have been in love with you for so long that I can scarcely imagine feeling any other way.  I hope to spend every day of the rest of our lives showing you the truth of it.” I gave a squeeze to our joined hands. “Sherlock, you can have me with you in every possible way, now and always. I love you.  I’ll love you forever. It’s that simple.”   

I believe we were both awed into silence at that moment.  We were both so profoundly happy at the knowledge that we were loved, we were wanted, we could truly _have_ one another -- words failed us, and we could only cling tightly together as though we were saving ourselves from drowning.  Without realizing it, I had begun to rock Holmes gently back and forth, with my fingers carding through the inky silk of his hair.  I freely admit that it was every bit as much for my own comfort as it was for his.

I lost track of time as we lay clasped together, but realized after some minutes that my love was growing gradually heavier in my arms, his breathing evening out as he nestled his face into the curve of my shoulder.  As unbelievably beautiful as it was, this much emotion was exhausting -- and on top of what had to have been a completely sleepless night for Holmes, it could only have been even more so. I felt a spasm of aching tenderness in my chest at the sweetness of this brand new sensation. Sherlock Holmes had fallen trustingly into sleep pressed against my heart, and I cradled him as softly in my embrace as I possibly could.  

It was several hours later that I was sweetly awakened by a kiss -- one that quickly turned into something so much more than sweet, and which caused my entire body to awaken fully to the beautiful, passionate man who would always have my heart and soul.  There followed what I consider to be some of the most sacred moments of our time together as we joined together in every possible way. Ours could never be a union sanctioned by church or state, but we sanctified it ourselves, pledging our all to one another.

 

~oOo~

 

“You had such a look on your face just now,” Holmes said, looking at me with a smile on his lips and inquiry in his eyes. “Whatever was going through your mind?”

I laughed softly.  “It’s just that this --” I gestured between us with a wave of my hand “-- this feels holy, somehow.”

Something about that statement hit Holmes in just the right way, I suppose; he was clearly struggling not to laugh, and the sight of his amusement made me burst into rather embarrassing giggles.  Of course, the sound of that was the last straw for my poor darling, and we were shortly convulsed with laughter.  After all of the profound emotion we had been through over the past hours, this release felt absolutely wonderful.

“Oh, love,” Holmes gasped between paroxysms of merriment, “I’m so terribly sorry if I’ve offended you.”

I wiped tears from my cheeks, clutching my aching abdomen.  “Far from it, my dearest -- I can’t recall the last time I laughed so hard.”

From there, the conversation deteriorated shamelessly as we discussed other things that might become hard besides just the laughter -- and branched into near heresy as we thought of different ways that we could perform a sacred rite with just the materials we currently had at hand.  (Neither of us have been able to walk past holy water with a straight face ever since.)

\--------

If I were feeling creative, I suppose I could call it “The Mystery of the Doctor’s Secret and the Detective’s Heart,” but I’ll certainly never risk incriminating us by writing this story down.  

I will, however, cherish the solution of this particular case for as long as I live.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Much love especially to those of you who took the risk on a WIP way back in January -- and to my dear xASx, who had to put up with not only the long wait, but all kinds of other nonsense. (I made it through the whole last chapter without mentioning You Know Who -- and no smut! Merry Christmas, babe!)


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